


baby it's cold outside

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Series: let the plot die [3]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Christmas Party, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, dong dong merrily on high, foreplay is important, hey look a condom, let the plot die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: “You’re drunk,” Ren says.“Very,” Hux replies, “very observant indeed, Kylo Ren.” Ren’s thigh is between his legs, firm, holding him in place; Ren’s hands, his very large hands, have undone the button of his suit jacket. They rub up and down over his ribs, burning hot through the thin silky material of his shirt, kneading. “And you,” Hux says, “are takingliberties.”





	baby it's cold outside

**Author's Note:**

> on this the eve of the death of tumblr, I present to you 3k of unabashed pwp. rip. please do heed the warnings. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Well, maybe just a half a drink more_  
>  _Put some records on while I pour_

The Christmas party is on-site this year, meaning there’s no real coat check: only an unsupervised conference room stuffed to the brim with wool and fur and polyester and, here and there, discarded stiletto shoes. With the kaleidoscoping red and green disco lights spinning alarmingly in his peripheral vision and the bass pounding dizzyingly between his ribs, Hux stoops to begin the laborious process of digging his coat out from under the mound. He’s almost too sloshed to bother. He reaches just a bit too far and finds himself listing to the right, the carpet sinking eagerly beneath him. The room tilts. Hux gropes for the wall and leans heavily against it, ankle-deep in coats. Through the windows, the lights of the city seem to be pulsing in time with the music. He can see his reflection in the glass, a white work-worn slice of skin, a pale thin neck being all but garroted by a dark blue tie.

 

He’s in a state. Perhaps he ought to abandon his coat, ought to hurry outside and let the December air slap some sense into him, freeze the warmth and complacency from his gin-soaked bones.

 

Before he can relay these instructions to his legs, though, the door swings open, and he sees the weird angular face of Kylo Ren, greenish and ghostly, in the window.

 

“Hux,” says the ghost.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Hux mumbles to himself, “oh, not now,” and then he straightens up as best as he can whilst still half-melted into the wall and says, “Ren.”

 

Ren is holding amber in a low glass. The light from the corridor shifts lazily through it, golden, and shines blue across Ren’s knuckles, damp with condensation and sloshed alcohol. Hux slumps back against the wall, tilts his chin up, watches the movement of the light.

 

“Drink it,” Ren tells him.

 

“I’ve had enough,” Hux says.

 

“Drink it,” Ren repeats.

 

“Is it poisoned?” Hux says.

 

“Drink it,” Ren says a third time, and, when Hux makes no move to do so, pulls the glass away. He raises it to his own mouth, drinks, and suddenly leans in, a looming shadow, lips soft, trapping Hux with a forearm on either side of his head. He feeds Hux a smooth, sweet mouthful that doesn’t start to burn until Hux has swallowed it down.

 

Hux’s mouth is slack; a dribble of whiskey wets his chin.

 

“Revolting,” he murmurs.

 

Ren looks at him, unblinking, for a long silent moment, before he takes another gulp and bends in again. Hux kisses him lazily, eyes half-closed, tasting fumes. He feels, rather than hears, the dull thump of the glass hitting the carpet at their feet, the rumble of the groan in Ren’s chest as Ren presses forward, pushing him deeper into the coats. The strange felted texture of the conference room wall snags at his hair, his suit jacket. He smiles at the sensation. He is warm all the way to his toes.

 

“You’re drunk,” Ren says.

 

“Very,” Hux replies, “very observant indeed, Kylo Ren.” Ren’s thigh is between his legs, firm, holding him in place; Ren’s hands, his very large hands, have undone the button of his suit jacket. They rub up and down over his ribs, burning hot through the thin silky material of his shirt, kneading. “And you,” Hux says, “are taking _liberties_.”

 

“I like how you are right now,” Ren says. “Soft. Loose.”

 

“Don’t be disgusting,” Hux says. He hisses between his teeth as Ren palms his arse, squeezes.

 

“Purring for it,” Ren says.

 

“What are you saying?” Hux scoffs. “ _Purring_ —” He breaks off as Ren pushes into him with his thigh, forcing him onto his toes. The pressure against his bollocks is brutal, verging on painful. He tries to grab at Ren’s shoulders, but Ren pins him, presses his wrists into the wall. “Ren—”

 

“Had a good year, Hux?” Ren says, in his ear. He rubs his thigh against Hux, whispering at him, low and insistent: “Good bonus? A nice— _fat_ —bonus—”

 

He can feel Ren against his hip, hard in his trousers: a nice fat bonus indeed.

 

“Just adequate,” Hux says. “Enough, Ren; let me up.”

 

Goaded, Ren undoes his zip, frees himself from his pants and trousers. Hux stares. His mind supplies a cartoonish sound effect, the noise of a bouncing spring. Ren’s prick is red and straining in the dim light, already leaking for him. Hux imagines it being crammed inside while his legs spread wider and wider just to accommodate it, filling him until he can feel it in his throat. For a moment he feels almost nauseated—too hot under the collar, legs weak, while the room tilts giddily around him. Saliva floods his mouth.

 

“Fuck,” he says faintly, gulping.

 

“Just adequate, huh,” Ren says, and the lights flash on his grin, and he rubs his cock up Hux’s groin and belly in a long, smooth stroke.

 

Hux pants.

 

“Here?” he says, still faint, looking at the coats piled at Ren’s feet like corpses.

 

“We could go upstairs,” Ren says.

 

“Your office?” His own is out of the question, of course. Hux musters up a frown. “Your filthy rat’s nest? No.”

 

“Snoke isn’t here,” Ren says.

 

“Don’t bring Snoke into—” He stares. “You’re mental. No. Absolutely not.”

 

They’re both after the same high seat, the one at the head of the table. Snoke’s throne, for as long as he can keep it. But Ren is an American upstart from some provincial backwater, just a brat, and Hux, upstart though he may also be, is at least known: the head of the London office in all but name.

He’s known for some time about Ren’s ambitions, though he has never suspected, never guessed, that Ren has been dreaming up other uses for Snoke’s chair.

 

For a moment he allows himself to imagine it: retreating upstairs onto the darkened practice floor, shedding his clothing and leaving it all in a heap by the bookcase, padding naked and barefoot across the soft carpets, sweeping the papers off Snoke’s desk, and then being bent almost in half across the mahogany, feet pushed up high over Ren’s shoulders and bobbing obscenely in the air while Ren drives into him, sweat beading and splashing onto the polished wood and the lights of the city glimmering all around. Perhaps Ren will march him to the window, where he will leave marks: handprints, imprints of his gasping mouth, the smear of his cock against the glass.

 

Sensation floods him; he slingshots back to the present, to the sudden chill of his trousers and pants puddling around his ankles, to the heat of Ren’s hand curling around his prick and squeezing, tracing circles over the slit with the rough pads of his fingers, spreading wetness. Hux cries out, and his cock jumps weakly, still more than half flaccid.

 

“Lush,” Ren murmurs to him. “Can’t get with the program, huh?”

 

“Fuck off,” Hux says, cursing the gin, and then he opens his mouth for the welcome interruption of Ren’s tongue, more than content to lean back and let Ren fondle him. “Upstairs?” he says, remembering.

 

But Ren is already tearing open the condom packet he’s produced from God knows where.

 

“Where on earth,” Hux says. “You slut, Ren, carrying that around in your front pocket, _just in case_ —”

 

“Back pocket,” Ren corrects him. His hands shake as he rolls the condom onto his prick. “I knew you’d be here tonight. Have to show your face, don’t you? Be seen. Smile at the lackeys. Make them feel appreciated.”

 

He guides Hux’s hand down to close around his cock. The condom is silky to the touch, wet; it’s lubricated, slipping easily against Hux’s palm. Through it, he feels the velvet shift of Ren’s skin, the heat, the hardness. He moans.

 

Ren’s eyes gleam at him in the darkness. “Who’s the slut here, exactly?” he says. He sucks on his own fingers, judging, perhaps correctly, that Hux is likely to bite anything Ren puts in his mouth. “I saw you guzzling down straight gin like it was water. I knew you’d end up here. You were waiting for someone, anyone, to come find you. To do this to you.” He fumbles between Hux’s legs a moment, wet fingers trailing over his bollocks and slipping between his buttocks, massaging at his hole.

 

“ _Christ_ ,” Hux exclaims, and he shivers as Ren dips inside, over and over. He thinks about shoving Ren away, but his body seems half asleep, loose and pliant, pinned to the wall by an unseen force, by inertia. Ren scissors about perfunctorily, his fingers already beginning to catch.

 

“Put your arms around me,” he says, and then he hoists Hux’s leg up around his waist. The head of his cock presses hard against Hux’s perineum, and Hux jolts and groans, low and hopeless.

 

“Wait,” he manages. “Wait, I—”

 

It’s too late: Ren breaches him. He plunges in as quickly as he can, constrained by friction; it’s not so much a smooth, wet glide as a short, ragged intrusion. Just the fat head of his cock, stretching him wide—Ren is murmuring this in his ear, breathing hard, narrating his progress—just the tip, just that, and then just a bit more, _that’s it, take it, God, Hux, you’re so tight_. He works himself inside in rough little bursts, while Hux chokes above him and beats his fist against the wall. It feels as though he’s being penetrated by a bloody construction pylon.

 

“I’ll tear, I’ll tear,” he gasps. “Ren,” he says, beseeching, “ _Kylo_ , please—”

 

“Shh,” Ren says, “ _Armitage_ ,” and keeps going. It seems almost an eternity until he is fully seated, and Hux simply dangles, pierced to the core, eyes watering, mouth agape, his mind too hazy now even to swear.

 

Ren swears for him, again and again. “Fuck, shit, oh, fuck,” he says. “Can I—I’m gonna—”

 

Dizzy, Hux clings to him, moaning softly into Ren’s shoulder as he drags slowly and agonizingly out and pushes back in.

 

“Hux,” Ren says, “oh, my god, Hux,” and then he grips Hux’s arse with both hands and _lifts_ him.

 

“No, no,” Hux exclaims, almost a yelp, but Ren doesn’t listen. He tilts Hux’s arse toward him, pressing Hux’s back into the wall. Hux cries out and locks his ankles around Ren’s waist to keep from falling; then he cries out again at the sudden sharpness of Ren’s prick sinking into him, deep, stabbing into his guts. Ren fucks into him in short, stuttering bursts; every jolt makes him whimper and gasp.

 

Abruptly, Ren goes still. Hux sighs a bit in relief and tries to catch his breath. Relief turns into lancing dread, however, as he realizes why Ren has stopped: there is a lull in the music, over which he can hear the sound of voices and footsteps in the corridor beyond, coming closer. He hears the clicking of stilettoed feet: Phasma, he thinks, all done up in silver and tinsel like a bloody Christmas tree; she’ll come in, she’ll come in and see him, with his arms and legs wrapped around Kylo Ren, shoved so full of Ren’s cock that he’s practically drooling.

 

Ren seems to read the scroll of panicked thoughts unfurling behind his eyes. He grins.

 

“Uh oh,” he says, deadpan. “What are you going to do?”

 

Hux can only look at him, mouth slack, unable to speak. Then Ren rolls his hips, snapping his cock even deeper inside, and Hux moans.

 

“Be quiet,” Ren says. The muscles of one arm go rigid as he lets go of Hux with the other and reaches up to cover Hux’s mouth. “Shh,” he says, at the noise Hux makes, shocked and helpless, “don’t let them hear you.”

 

Ren’s hand is huge and fever-hot as it presses over Hux’s nose and mouth, muffling all sound; unbelievably, horribly, he’s still fucking slowly into him: methodical thrusts that seem to be getting deeper and deeper, and all Hux can do is tremble, immobilized, impaled, while the sensation of being fucked open washes over him, dragging tears to his eyes, dragging little mewling cries from his throat until he runs out of air, and then his mouth slides against Ren’s palm, open and silent. There are spots dancing in his vision, too, as his breathing puffs damply to a stop against Ren’s hand. With every thrust, his trapped prick rubs against their bellies, the head of his cock catching tantalizingly against Ren’s shirt, but it’s not enough; it’s nowhere near enough. He hangs there, suspended, unable to breathe, throat tightening painfully around a sob.

 

The music picks up; with someone’s bright, trilling laughter, the shadows pass, and the corridor is empty again. Ren draws his hand away, and a trail of snot and saliva follows. Hux sucks in a long, quivering breath, shaking, then empties his lungs altogether as Ren jerks him upward and bottoms out inside him.

 

“Oh, oh— _oh_ — _fuck_ —”

 

“You got so tight around me,” Ren says, holding him there. “Just now.”

 

He can _feel_ Ren inside him, so thick and unyielding—unmoving—

 

“Ren— _Ren_ —”

 

“What is it?” Ren says. His hands are slick with sweat on Hux’s hips, the fingertips almost gouging as he tries to keep his grip. “What do you want?”

 

“Please,” Hux gasps. “Please!”

 

Ren draws out almost all the way, then ploughs back in. Hux chokes and seizes, head thumping against the wall.

 

Ren fucks him until he is crying out incoherently, until his head is lolling on his shoulders, until the thick drag of Ren's cock inside begins to burn and all of Hux’s limbs are jellied from the sheer strain of holding on. He’s almost crying with frustration, needing a hand on his cock, but he can’t let go of Ren for fear of falling, and Ren ignores his pleas and pounds into him, faster and faster, and then he grunts, hips slamming forward, and spends. His hands tighten on Hux’s arse with bruising force. Hux slumps back, breathing in desperate gulps, riding out every last twitch and minute thrust of Ren’s prick inside him.

 

Eventually, Ren releases him and pulls out. Hux finds his feet again and braces himself against the wall, shivering, watching with bleary eyes as Ren ties off the condom. His body feels hollow, used, his hole still twitching around a phantom cock. He can feel something running down the inside of his thigh: sweat, perhaps, or maybe even blood; Ren’s cock had begun to move more easily inside him, toward the end.

 

The skyline is blurring. Ren catches him just before his legs give out.

 

The taxi purrs smoothly down black pavement. Hux remembers Ren’s hands around his hips, doing up his buckle. He remembers being helped to the lift, Ren murmuring to someone—Mitaka?—that Hux has had a little too much to drink. Mitaka protests, and Hux remembers the sight of his own hand, faded in dim recollection, languid and feeble as he waves Mitaka off. Ren’s arm is solid around his waist, the only thing keeping him upright. He presses Hux into a corner in the lift, and Hux rubs against him, balls aching.

 

It’s cold outside, the sky crystallizing overhead with the threat of frost and ice. The air is a shock against his wet face, in his lungs, but it does nothing to restore him to clear-headed sobriety; he’s too far gone, absolutely fuddled with alcohol and exhaustion and the general bewilderment of the night’s events.

 

He remembers how the leather seats of the taxi squeaked beneath him as he clambered in, Ren’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Ren gave an address, a flat in Chelsea, and then Hux leaned back, sighing gratefully as Ren’s hand settled between his legs, slipping under his waistband and into his pants, squeezing and pawing at him.

 

The driver is murmuring into his headset now, eyes on the road, entirely unaware. Hux slumps in his seat and whines quietly as Ren pulls away from his poor neglected prick, sliding around to finger again at his sore hole.

 

 

 

He remembers very little of what comes after: only flashes here and there, of Ren stripping him, pinching him, sliding his cock into Hux’s drooling mouth, then turning him over. He remembers the noise of his cries, stifled by the pillows, the feeling of Ren’s hands tightening on his hips, his throat, his prick. The blistering moment of orgasm and the bitter taste of his own come as Ren feeds it to him, rubbing his fingers across Hux’s tongue, and then oblivion: a dreamless, starless darkness. He tumbles into it headlong, pushed by Ren’s hands.

 

 

 

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed, face-down in the sheets and certain only of three things: one, that he is late for work. Two, that he is dying. His head throbs. His tongue feels twice its normal size, furred and fissured, sour with the taste of rising bile. The light of morning is blinding.

 

Three: there are fingers in his arse.

 

He doesn’t know how long Ren has been fucking him, pushing his wet fingers in and out, rubbing lazily at Hux’s insides, but he can feel the press of them, _just there_ , probing at a spot deep within him, fucked tender. He hisses.

 

“Don’t,” he says, and then he bites at a pillow and swears as Ren curls his fingers and _scrapes_.

 

A fourth certainty: the fullness of his bladder is beginning to be uncomfortable.

 

“Let me—I have to,” Hux whispers, but Ren is already spreading him, sliding the head of his bare cock against Hux’s hole, still so soft and open from the night before. He cages Hux with his body and arms, too heavy to dislodge.

 

“Ren,” Hux says, and “wait,” and “ _oh_ —”

 

He lies there, limp, feeling the sting and stretch as Ren pushes into him and starts to move. The winter sun is shining through the panes, as sharp as shattered glass. The room swirls. Hux moans, jagged, and closes his eyes.

 

 


End file.
